


Situational Awareness

by RainyDayDecaf



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asthma attack, Attempted Kidnapping, Blood and Injury, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mugging, Stabbing, Threats of Violence, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:21:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26954293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyDayDecaf/pseuds/RainyDayDecaf
Summary: “Oi!  I said give me your money!”Aziraphale paused and turned around.  Blinked several times and looked behind him in search of anyone else the strangely aggressive man could be addressing.  “I’m sorry?”“You heard me,” the man said, though he sounded far more annoyed than menacing now.  Put out, in a way, like his grand and dramatic entrance had been ruined.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 277





	Situational Awareness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Whumptober 2020, based on Day 28: Such Wow, Many Normal, Very Oops (Mugged). I started writing this before Whumptober and decided to use the theme as an excuse to finish it. Please enjoy the angst!

“Give me your money.”

The words flew right over his head at first. It had been a very long day, and Aziraphale was painfully exhausted and in the middle of a yawn so big that it cracked his jaw. His thoughts had drifted off into a pleasant haze as he strolled through the empty streets of London, not quite sleepwalking but near enough that he hardly noticed his surroundings.

So maybe he could be forgiven for ignoring the man in dark clothes and sunglasses who lunged out of the alley and growled such menacing words. In fact, Aziraphale walked right _past_ him and would have kept on walking if the man hadn’t called out.

“Oi! I said give me your money!”

Aziraphale paused and turned around. Blinked several times and looked behind him in search of anyone else the strangely aggressive man could be addressing. “I’m sorry?”

“You _heard_ me,” the man said, though he sounded far more annoyed than menacing now. Put out, in a way, like his grand and dramatic entrance had been ruined. “Look, just make this easy and hand over your wallet. I’ve got a knife.”

“I… I’m _sorry?”_ Aziraphale said in disbelief. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he had the rational thought that he ought to do whatever this man says if he wanted to live out the night. But that thought was drowned out by a growing incredulity that this was happening in the first place. Oh, of course, he knew the statistics about big cities. Aziraphale had done his research before making the move to London. He had been educated on all the usual precautions. _Don’t walk alone, stick to well-lit areas, never carry too many valuables,_ etc. Aziraphale normally considered himself a very cautious person with a decent amount of common sense, even if he could be a bit absentminded at times. His friends back at university had been fond of warning him that his lack of situational awareness would one day get him into trouble.

But… but, really? _Truly?_ His very first night in London, not even nine hours after the movers had driven off, and he was being mugged? And in his own neighborhood! Soho had seemed so welcoming and safe in the light of day. His new bookshop with the cozy flat above was just around the corner, for Heaven’s sake!

The mugger advanced. It was only one step, but the movement snapped Aziraphale back into the moment, made his breathing quicken just a bit. Oh, that was not good. His lungs were already not happy with him after an entire day spent carting around heavy boxes and shelving merchandise, doing far too much physical activity in a far too dusty environment. And he doubted a mugger would care if he collapsed right there in the street wheezing and fumbling for his rescue inhaler. Did he even _have_ his inhaler or had he left it in his other coat? Aziraphale couldn’t remember, and he didn’t dare to check now, who knew what the mugger would think if he went rooting around in his pockets.

Another step. Aziraphale recoiled and held up his hand, the other wrapped around his bag of takeaway like a shield. “Now, now please, let’s be reasonable…”

“Not going to say it again,” the mugger said. His crooked teeth were bared like a predator, eyes flashing in the light of the street lamps. The irises looked almost _yellow-ish_ and had Aziraphale pondering the likelihood of vampires and demons before he scolded himself for being ridiculous.

The mugger withdrew a hand from his jacket and, _oh dear,_ that was certainly a knife. A bread knife, to be exact, and much bigger than it had any right to be. Aziraphale suddenly felt a bit ill. He looked around frantically at the shops nearby, but at this late hour, they were all locked up and shuttered against the night. Even if he shouted, it was unlikely any help would be forthcoming.

“You. Wallet. Now.”

”I, just a moment,” Aziraphale stuttered, shaking so hard that he nearly dropped his takeaway. He desperately gulped in a few breaths, trying to calm his thundering heart.

“Hurry up!”

“Give me a _moment,”_ Aziraphale said. “I’ve never been in this position before, I’m a little out of sorts! And you’re being very rude!”

The mugger spluttered, an altogether too human sound for such a dangerous creature. “Ru… _rude?_ Oh, _rude,_ he says! I’m being rude, me! So _terribly_ sorry, I’ll be more polite the next time I decide to rob you at knifepoint.”

Aziraphale flushed, embarrassment coloring his cheeks. “Well, now you’re just being ridiculous,” he mumbled.

“Excuse me, sir,” the mugger mocked. “I’m in search of a wallet that’s just a tad more full than the one I have on me. Wonder if you might help me with my _inquiries?”_

“Yes, alright, I see your point!”

The mugger pointed the business end of the knife directly at his face. “So are you going to do what I ask? Or am I going to have to use this?”

“…I would really rather you not,” Aziraphale said faintly.

“Well, then?”

Aziraphale chewed on the inside of his cheek, helpless anger simmering under his skin. But what other choice did he have? He stood no chance of outrunning this man. Fighting was equally out of the question, he was years out of practice with his boxing and wrestling. And any resistance at all was likely to end with him dead in some filthy gutter, a spectacle for the morning papers. _Local man stabbed by mugger, bleeds out alone and unremarked. Family declined to comment except to say, “We told him so. We told him to go into politics like the rest of us instead of wasting his time with old books, but did he listen?”_

Meekly, he dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. It was a lovely thing, custom made with a tartan lining, commissioned from a young artist on the internet. The thought of letting this awful _thief_ take it and perhaps destroy it made his heart ache.

The mugger held out his other hand, fingers wiggling. Aziraphale couldn’t see his expression behind the sunglasses, but he seemed impatient and kept looking over his shoulder. Checking for harmless bystanders who might become his next victim, no doubt.

Aziraphale weighed his chances and decided it was worth the risk. “Could I have it back, please? The wallet, I mean. You can take whatever’s in it, but…”

“Are you serious?” the mugger said flatly.

“Yes! It’s very important to me.” He sniffed in disdain. “And I doubt the likes of _you_ has any use for it.”

The mugger groaned. “Yes, fine, just hand it over.”

“Oh, and my library cards! Could you leave those? And the photo of my godson—”

The mugger closed the distance and snatched the wallet from his grasp. Aziraphale jerked back, rubbing his fingers where the man had touched him, and hated the injustice of the world a little more. “Please be careful of the stitching! I’ve had it for a number of years, it’s not as strong as it once was.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll watch the _stitching,”_ the mugger said with a level of snideness that was entirely unwarranted. But for all of that, he did open the wallet with more care than Aziraphale expected. There was an awkward moment where the mugger attempted to rifle through the contents without dropping his knife, and he ended up sticking the handle under his arm and holding it there while he sorted through the stack of library cards. _Highly unprofessional,_ Aziraphale thought and had to cough into his hand to stop himself from laughing hysterically.

The mugger glared. Like he knew _exactly_ what Aziraphale was thinking and didn’t like it one bit

“Erm, chilly tonight, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said with a weak smile.

The mugger ignored him. Aziraphale banished the smile and, for lack of anything else to do, let himself take a closer look at the man. Not quite as young as he’d first assumed and very gaunt in the cheeks. He made an effort to memorize the tousled red hair, the crooked teeth, the freckles, so he would have a description for the police later. It helped that the mugger was taking his time about it. Was it meant to take this long?

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Find what you’re looking for?”

“Where are your credit cards?”

“I haven’t got any,” Aziraphale said. “Never did see the point, if I’m being honest.”

“You must have at least _one,”_ the mugger insisted. He had already found and pocketed the cash, though there wasn’t much. Aziraphale had only brought enough with him for the takeaway and perhaps for a bit of dessert if he fancied. The mugger searched the wallet again, grumbling under his breath, and turned that testy gaze on Aziraphale. “What about a bank card? You can’t tell me you don’t have a bank account.”

“Of course I do, but I don’t carry the card with me,” Aziraphale exclaimed. “What if I lost it? Some unsavory person could take it and use it to drain my… my accounts of…”

He trailed off, the irony of the situation not lost on him.

The mugger rolled his eyes. “Of course. _Of course._ Just my luck, I picked the one person with _nothing_ in his wallet.”

“Oh, come now, you can’t blame me for that. You’re the one going around with a weapon accosting innocent people! Have you considered finding something else to do with your time?”

“Look, just.” The mugger looked over his shoulder again. Without warning, he took a firm grip on Aziraphale’s lapel and pushed him up against the brick wall behind him.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” Aziraphale said, voice jumping in alarm. “If you lay a single hand on me, I have to warn you, I… I have friends in high places! You won’t get away with this!”

“Yeah, sure,” the mugger said absently. He slipped the bread knife back inside his jacket. “Look, have you got a mobile? Jewelry?”

Aziraphale curled his fingers around his pinky ring. “No. Nothing like that.”

He squeaked indignantly when the mugger started patting down his pockets. “The hell you don’t,” he muttered. “You’ve got to have _something_ valuable. An expensive watch, anything!”

“You’re wasting your time!” Aziraphale said. He dared to give the man a little push away from him, carefully smoothing out the rumples in his clothes. “I’m afraid I can’t help you with your… illicit endeavors. Now, I won’t report this to the police, as long as you walk away now and let me be…”

“Crowley!”

Aziraphale flinched. So did the mugger. From the alleyway, two more people emerged from the darkness and slunk into the light of the street lamp. Both wearing dark clothes, rather shabby and dirt-stained, and the shorter one was also holding a knife, a proper switchblade.

Oh, this was just what Aziraphale needed. The man had _accomplices._ His hand fluttered to his throat, and he recited half a dozen prayers in his head and reflected on all of his sins in the span of a few seconds.

“What’s taking so long?” That was the taller one with bad teeth, sounding disgruntled. “You said you could handle it.”

The first mugger, Crowley, turned to face the other two, but kept one hand on Aziraphale’s chest to keep him pinned to the wall. “Yeah, I’m handling it, what's it look like I’m doing?”

“It doesn’t take five minutes to grab a wallet,” the shorter one said. “He’s not even putting up a fight. Just whack him over the head so we can get a move on.”

“Excuse me!” Aziraphale said. “There will be no whacking—”

“Shut it!” Crowley hissed. He looked at Aziraphale, jaw clenched tight, and shook his head. The message was quite clear. These men were dangerous. Trying to reason with them would be a _very_ bad idea.

“Look, guys,” Crowley said carefully, “I’m just… practicing my intimidation tactics. You know I’m new at this, you’ve got to give me some leeway. So why don’t you go back to lurking, and I’ll finish up here so we can move on?”

The shorter one shook his head with a little smirk. “Sorry, Crowley. You know how Hastur gets when he’s bored.”

The one named Hastur came forward, leering at Aziraphale, those dark eyes glittering like pits of obsidian. (He really ought to start reading more cheery books, his internal narrator was leaning just a bit on the spooky side.) Aziraphale recoiled, once more debating the merits of running away. The bookshop was right around the corner, if he could just get inside and lock the doors, then phone the police…

“Ligur, come on, the guy doesn’t even have anything on him,” Crowley said, speaking more quickly now. He shifted his weight, tugging Aziraphale ever-so-slightly behind him, which was as confusing as it was reassuring. “Complete dud, this one. Waste of time. Might as well just let him go, eh?”

“You said he looked rich,” Hastur said. “Said we’d be stupid to pass it up.”

“Yeah, well, what do I know about these things? I was wrong, clearly…”

“Wait,” Ligur said suddenly. He stepped around Crowley, hand darting out to seize Aziraphale by his upper arm, who froze like a startled rabbit beneath the scrutiny.

“...I’ve seen you before,” Ligur said slowly. “On the telly.”

Aziraphale tittered nervously. “Oh that, that’s flattering, truly, but I’m sure you’re mistaken…”

“Yeah, I remember now,” Ligur went on with more certainty. “You’ve got a sister in Parliament, haven’t you? Michael-something or other?”

“Parliament?” Hastur said.

“Sister?” Crowley echoed.

 _Oh dear,_ Aziraphale thought, heart dropping to his stomach. “We’re not on the best of terms,” he mumbled.

Ligur grinned, and his grip on Aziraphale became vice-like. “Know what this looks like to me, gentleman? Easy ransom money. I can’t believe we got this lucky! He just walked right into our waiting arms!”

“Wait,” Crowley said.

“Oh, I _like_ that,” Hastur said, giggling, an ecstatic and avaricious look on his face. “You think the sister will pay up for him?”

“One way to find out.”

“Whoa, hang on, no!” Crowley exclaimed. “You’re talking about kidnapping, that’s more than a few steps above snatching wallets! I didn’t sign up for that!”

“You signed up for whatever we tell you, _Crawly,”_ Hastur retorted.

“Come on, you.” Ligur took a firmer hold on Aziraphale and yanked him toward the alley, which suddenly looked far more threatening, like a toothy maw waiting to swallow him up. Panicked now, Aziraphale dug in his feet and struggled in earnest, seized by dire visions of being chained up and locked in a dungeon, deprived of food and water, perhaps having bits of himself cut off and sent to Michael in a box…

“Oh no, please, you must reconsider!” Aziraphale cried out. Babbled, really, he couldn’t seem to stop the words from spilling out. “Michael won’t negotiate with criminals, you mark my words, this will end terribly for you! I-I have money back at my shop, there’s a cash box, you can have it, just let me go, please…!”

Beside him, Ligur grunted and fell to the ground with Crowley on top of him, flailing his fists wildly and trapping the other man in an approximation of a headlock.

_“Run!”_

Aziraphale whirled around and found himself bumping straight into Hastur, whose face had twisted with rage, one hand reaching into his coat.

Aziraphale punched him. It was a reflex, purely born of adrenaline, and he was positive he had dislocated a few fingers from improper form. His boxing coach from his school days would be appalled. But regardless, Hastur went down like a sack of potatoes, and Aziraphale fled down the street at a dead sprint.

He only made it around the corner before he had to stop, coughing hard, a familiar tightness banding his lungs. His head spun like he had been dunked underwater and held there for long minutes. Ducking into a doorway and hunkering down, he patted his pockets until he found his rescue inhaler and put it to use.

“...that way…?”

Aziraphale covered his mouth to hide his panting and held very, very still. Two figures jogged past his hiding spot and kept going without a backward glance. Aziraphale watched Hastur and Ligur turn into another alley and counted to at least thirty before he dared to stand up.

He could see the bookshop from here. The doors waited with their sturdy locks, a barrier between himself and the dangers of a London night. Aziraphale wanted nothing more than to run inside and make himself a soothing cup of cocoa. Maybe reconsider his move to the city and look into how difficult it would be to set up shop in the countryside.

He hesitated. Looked back the way he had come.

Where was Crowley?

“What am doing?” Aziraphale muttered even as his feet reluctantly carried him away from the bookshop. “I’m sure he’s gone by now. Off to molest some other poor fellow out for an evening stroll. For Heaven’s sake, the man held you at knifepoint, you have _no_ obligation…”

And yet, an internal voice fretted, Crowley had saved him from abduction. Risked life and limb to give Aziraphale a chance to run. He hadn’t needed to do that, those men had been on his side, after all.

And… and what if there was more to the situation than it seemed on first glance? Crowley had looked so genuinely frightened when the other two showed themselves, all of his bravado gone in a blink. What if those men had _made_ him do it? What if he needed help?

The entrance of the alley loomed into sight. Aziraphale lingered back, hands clasped together tightly, and promised himself that if the alley was empty, he would go straight back to his bookshop and not worry his head about it anymore.

He peeked around the corner. “Oh, Lord!” he gasped.

Crowley opened his eyes. He lay slumped against the wall, curled up on his side with both hands pressed to his belly where blood gushed between his fingers at an alarming rate. His gaze was glassy as Aziraphale knelt beside him, the sunglasses nowhere in sight.

“P… Please…”

“Oh, my dear, don’t move,” Aziraphale said, unnecessarily. The poor man was clearly in no condition to move. A bloody knife and a smashed mobile lay at his side, and the deliberate cruelty of it… the implication that he had been left to die with no means to call for help… turned his stomach. “Just stay still, I’m going to call someone.”

“Said you didn’t have a mobile...”

“Yes, I lied! Don’t hold it against me!” Aziraphale fished out his old, trusty flip phone and dialed with shaking fingers. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

_“999, what is your emergency?”_

“A man has been stabbed! He needs help! We’re… oh God, what street is this?! I just moved to Soho, I don’t know the street names!”

_“It’s alright, sir, we have your location on GPS from your phone.”_

“Oh. You can do that?”

Crowley hissed, eyes squeezed shut. “It really, really hurts,” he whimpered.

“You’re going to be just fine,” Aziraphale assured him. He tentatively pressed his own hand over Crowley’s, wincing when that made him sob. “The paramedics will take care of you, just as soon as they get here, not to worry.”

_“Sir, I need you to tell me how bad it is so I can walk you through first aid…”_

“I’m sorry,” Crowley slurred, weakly grasping at Aziraphale’s wrist. “I’m sorry, please don’t go, I don’t want to die by myself…”

“You’re not going to die!” Aziraphale dropped the mobile and used two hands to try and stem the flow of blood. “I’m right here, I won’t leave you. Everything will be alright, just hold on…”

He kept up a steady stream of comforting words, even after Crowley stopped responding, even after his eyes slipped shut and his body no longer shivered, muscles gone lax. And Aziraphale stayed with him, right up until the paramedics and the police arrived and someone gently pried him away.

* * *

The rest of the night passed in a haze. Crowley was rushed off in the ambulance, and Aziraphale was tended to by the paramedics, who diagnosed him with shock and offered him a blanket and a cold pack for his bruised knuckles. Then came a long conversation with a police officer, who took his statement and wrote down descriptions of Hastur and Ligur.

When they asked him about Crowley, Aziraphale told the truth. “I don’t know him, but he tried to help me. Those men were saying awful things about kidnapping me and hurting me, but he intervened. He saved me. He will be alright, won’t he?”

The police officer only gave him a gentle pat on the back and offered to walk him home. Once safely back in the bookshop, Aziraphale made sure to lock the doors behind him, then checked that the back door and all the windows were locked, and only then did he retreat upstairs for a very long, hot shower. Numbly, he scrubbed the blood from his hands and tried to process the whole ordeal.

It didn’t occur to him until his stomach growled that he had no idea what had become of his takeaway.

He settled for a plate of biscuits, feeling he deserved the indulgence, and spent the rest of the night huddled in his armchair with his favorite housecoat wrapped around his shoulders. He had envisioned himself going to bed tonight feeling exhausted but excited for the coming days when he would open the shop and get to know his neighbors. But he couldn’t even fathom it at the moment. Perhaps he would wait until next week to open. He would need to change the sign downstairs, but it would give him a bit of extra time to sort through inventory and decide which books to sell and which were only for display.

_It really hurts… I don’t want to die by myself…_

Aziraphale leaned forward to bury his face in his hands. After a moment, he brought his hands together to pray. He had somewhat lost faith in organized religion, but praying in the privacy of his own home still gave him a measure of peace in times of distress.

“Please save him,” Aziraphale murmured to whoever was listening. “Please. I know he committed a terrible sin… but he also saved me, so that must count for something. It balances out, right? Will you let him have another chance? I’m sure he’ll make the best of it. Please…”

He fell asleep in the chair waiting for an answer and had a terrible nightmare about being dragged in chains to a waiting guillotine and searching desperately through the jeering crowd for a flash of red hair.

* * *

The next day, he called the hospital. Well, Aziraphale called a number of hospitals, and it took him some time to locate the correct one with only a surname and a vague description of “tall with red hair”.

“I’m afraid I can’t give you details, as you’re not family,” the receptionist said in apology. “I see he was admitted to intensive care, but that’s as much as I can say.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said, twisting the cord around his fingers, unsure of where to go from here. “Would it be possible for me to visit? He saved my life, you see, I would like to thank him…”

“We’ll ask him when he wakes if he’s up to visitors. Would you like me to transfer you to the gift shop? You could have flowers sent to his room. A card, maybe?”

Aziraphale agreed and sent the flowers and a thank you card before he hung up. It didn’t feel like enough.

The phone rang again. Aziraphale answered it at once, halfway convinced the receptionist had relented and would allow him to visit. “Hello?”

“What did I tell you,” Michael said icily, “about opening a shop in Soho? Did I or did I not tell you it was a bad idea?”

Aziraphale withheld a sigh with some difficulty. “Michael. Lovely to hear from you. Have you been spying on me again?”

“The chief of police and I are old friends, you know that.”

“Yes, I recall. The two of you met in the nineties, when I was arrested for daring to be gay in public.”

Michael scoffed. “It’s a different world now, you can't hold that against him forever—”

“I will do as I please, Michael!”

“And did it please you to be attacked and mugged like a common Londoner? Not even a day and you were nearly murdered in a filthy alley! This would never have happened if you had listened to our mother…”

Aziraphale set the phone down on the table and went to sort inventory, letting Michael rant and lecture to her heart’s content.

* * *

_Three Weeks Later_

“We’ll bring the suspects in now,” the police officer said. “Just take your time.”

Aziraphale nodded, fiddling with his coat buttons. Had he not been so nervous, he would have been fascinated by how similar this was to the movies. A great big one-way window looking onto an empty room where four or five suspects would be lined up, and he would have the job of identifying if any of them were the muggers from that night. If Aziraphale ever got around to writing his own murder mystery novel, he would be sure to include a scene like this.

The suspects filed into the room. As they turned to face the viewing window, Aziraphale caught his breath.

There they were. Hastur and Ligur, side by side, looking quite surly. How strange to see them in the bright lights of the precinct. They didn't look nearly as monstrous as his memory had made them out to be.

“Those two, in the middle,” Aziraphale said. “It was them, I’m sure of it!”

The police officer nodded and wrote something down. “Had a feeling it would be. They were arrested yesterday for trying to steal a woman’s jewelry and her shoes.”

“Dear me, is she safe?”

“Safe and pissed off,” the police officer said with a chuckle. “Apparently these two have been at this for months. Multiple charges of mugging and assault. We just have one more witness to bring in after you, and I expect they’ll be going away for a number of years.”

Aziraphale breathed a deep sigh of relief. He had been a little ashamed to admit it, but walking out of his door at night had become something of a trial. He still couldn’t turn down that particular street without breaking out in a cold sweat, waiting for someone to lunge at him out of the shadows.

The police officer escorted him back into the hallway, where a second officer was waiting alongside the next witness. A red-haired man sitting hunched in a chair with a cane at his side.

For a second time, Aziraphale caught his breath.

Crowley looked up at his passing and went utterly pale.

Aziraphale kept walking, heart in his throat. He dared to peek over his shoulder only once and watched Crowley painfully climb to his feet and hobble into the viewing room, one hand wrapped around his middle.

Of course, Aziraphale thought with a twinge of hysteria, it only made sense that _he_ would be called in as a witness. No one else knew of Crowley’s involvement in the mugging. As far as the police were concerned, Crowley was a heroic bystander who had been injured trying to help another victim. Aziraphale had made that choice in the moment without thinking it through, and it really hadn’t occurred to him that he and Crowley might casually run into each other in broad daylight.

...well, there was only one thing for it.

He waited on a bench outside the police station, fingers drumming on his thighs, and once more wondered what on Earth he thought he was doing. Crowley would have no interest in speaking to him. He was probably traumatized and wished to forget the whole thing had ever happened. Even more likely, he was terrified of having his crime revealed. The best and kindest thing to do would be to leave and let him go about his life.

“...what are you still doing here?”

Aziraphale jumped and looked over his shoulder. There was Crowley, new mobile in hand, leaning heavily on his cane. And looking at Aziraphale like he didn’t know what to make of him.

“I needed a word,” Aziraphale said, just because he had no idea what else to say. What did one say to a person who had stolen his wallet and threatened him, then turned around and took a knife to the belly for him?

“What for?”

“Just… a word.” Aziraphale eyed the cane and scooted sideways, patting the bench. “Please. Sit?”

Crowley grimaced. He looked around and took the seat with a faint grunt, but kept a firm grip on his cane. Aziraphale honestly wondered what Crowley expected of this. A confrontation? A brawl on the steps of the police station?

“How is your… injury?”

Crowley shrugged. “Hurts,” he admitted. “Gonna take awhile to heal. They said I was lucky the blade missed my colon. Doesn't feel so lucky.”

Aziraphale nodded, genuinely relieved to hear that.

“Oh, um.” Crowley shoved a hand in his jacket and tugged out a familiar tartan wallet. “Paramedics thought it was mine. No idea _why_ they thought that, it’s not my style at all.”

 _“Oh.”_ Aziraphale took back his wallet with some reverence. It was a bit dirty, but the stitching had held up against the rough treatment of that night.

“Had to clean some blood off it,” Crowley muttered. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all, this is…” Aziraphale sniffed a little, stroking the familiar contours. “It seems silly now. I was so concerned about losing it, but if I had just handed it over right from the start…”

“Sshh!” Crowley flapped a hand at him. “Not here! If… look, if we’re going to talk about this, can we _not_ do it in front of the police station?”

“Oh yes, of course. But where else can we go?”

Crowley looked around nervously and tapped his mobile. “There’s a coffee shop down the street in walking distance. Outdoor seating. That public enough for you?”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale said, puzzled, but it clicked after a moment. “Oh! My dear fellow, I’m not _afraid_ of you…”

“Talk later,” Crowley hissed out of the corner of his mouth. A car pulled up—one of those fancy new Lyfts, by Aziraphale’s guess—and Crowley shuffled over to climb inside. Aziraphale watched him drive off and took a moment to straighten his bowtie before he stood up.

“Well, then. Off to have coffee with my…” Assailant? Savior? “...associate.”

* * *

“I would like to thank you, first of all. Thank you for saving me.”

Crowley snorted into his coffee. It seemed to take him a moment to realize Aziraphale wasn’t laughing. “That's a joke, right?”

“Not at all!” Aziraphale insisted. “If you hadn’t acted so quickly in that moment, there’s no telling what would have become of me.” He lowered his voice in deference for the people around them. “They were about to kidnap me and hold me for ransom!”

“They’re idiots,” Crowley said. “Your sister works in _Parliament._ You’d have spent half a day at most sitting around in Hastur’s basement before the police showed up.”

“And I’m sure it would have been a very unpleasant experience,” Aziraphale said, not intending to let this go. “One that you rescued me from.”

“Ended up stabbed for my trouble,” Crowley mumbled. But his cheeks had gone a little red, which Aziraphale was choosing to see as a good sign. “Don’t go around thinking I was acting out of the goodness of my heart. I just… I didn’t sign up for that, is all. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not…”

He shook his head, trailing off. Aziraphale stirred his cocoa. “From what I could tell,” he said delicately, “it seemed you didn’t have much choice in the matter. Not the thievery or the kidnapping. It rather seems to me that you… fell in with the wrong sort?”

Crowley glowered at him from behind the sunglasses, jaw tight. Aziraphale wondered if he was meant to be intimidated. But really, Crowley looked rather harmless in the light of day. If Aziraphale had to judge on first appearance, he would have assumed Crowley worked at a bank or a corporation, or perhaps that he was some manner of investor.

“You don’t want to hear my sob story,” Crowley said, sounding so very tired.

“Why would you ever assume such a thing?” Aziraphale straightened in his chair. “Mr. Crowley, I own a bookshop. If there is one thing I will never turn down, it’s a story.”

Crowley sighed. Took off his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes. Aziraphale let his gaze trace over those sharp cheekbones and beautiful lips before he caught himself with a little mental scolding.

“...I’m sort of a godfather, too,” Crowley said. “My second cousin, Warlock. His dad’s in prison for embezzlement, mom’s in rehab for drugs. He’s only eleven and he had to pack up and move in with me, some distant relation he barely knows. It’s not gone over well.”

Aziraphale leaned forward, already fascinated, and nodded his encouragement to keep going.

Crowley took a long gulp of his coffee. “Anyway, long story short, I lost my job, couldn’t find another one. Warlock doesn’t know yet. I needed money, whatever I could get my hands on. If I can’t provide for him, then he goes into foster care, and I can’t… I know what that’s like, I can’t let him…”

He rubbed his face again, lips twisting into a snarl. “Those two, Hastur and Ligur. They mugged me one night. Took my rent money and everything else I had on me, and I _begged_ them to give it back. Got on my damned knees and everything! Those arseholes just laughed at me. Then they put a knife in my hands and told me to earn it back myself. And… looking back now, it was stupid, the worst decision I’d ever made, but I was desperate. I didn’t think I had a choice, and I told myself ‘as long as no one gets hurt, then it’s fine, it doesn’t count’ and… blimey, why am I _telling_ you all of this?”

He made as if to stand up and storm off angrily, but abruptly dropped into his seat again, the color draining from his face. Aziraphale hurriedly reached across the table to grip his forearm.

“My dear, are you alright? Do you need a doctor?”

Crowley shook his head. “Just… stood up too fast. I’ll be fine, just let me sit for a minute.”

Aziraphale fretted in silence, biting his lip as he watched Crowley grip the table and breathe through the agony. “This is all my fault,” he said wretchedly. “I just ran away and _left_ you there, with those demons, like an utter coward! I’m so ashamed of myself, I don’t know how you can bear to look at me.”

“Aw, come on, don’t be like that,” Crowley said, somehow offering a wobbly smile in spite of everything. “You’re my guardian angel, you know. I wouldn't even be here if you hadn’t come back for me. And Warlock would be… he doesn’t even know how lucky he is.”

“Luck was with us both that night,” Aziraphale said. He took Crowley’s hand, squeezing it. “If there is _anything_ I can do to help your situation, please tell me. I can… bring by groceries every so often? Or help you look for jobs? Oh, I can write a letter of recommendation! I’m a fair hand with words, I’ll put a little something together. Talk up your best qualities.”

“What are those, exactly? Holds a knife well? Very polite while he was robbing me?”

“He’s very good with his hands, and he’s an excellent negotiator. Perhaps a career in sales?”

Crowley wheezed a laugh, slapping the table. And if there were still a few tears in his eyes, if he spent the rest of the meal inhaling food like a starving man, if he shyly wrote down his email on a napkin and asked to take him up on that letter of recommendation… well, Aziraphale thought it best not to make a fuss.

* * *

_Two Months Later_

Aziraphale made good on his word with the letter, but after that, he and Crowley didn’t keep in touch. He understood why, to some extent. They had not met under the best of circumstances, and it was… difficult to know how to act around each other. More than once, Aziraphale tried to compose an email, wanting to reach out and perhaps forge a friendship, but those drafts all ended up deleted.

Still, he worried for the man and his young charge. Aziraphale couldn’t imagine being in a similar position with Adam to care for and no support to fall back on.

In the end, he decided to leave the onus on Crowley to contact him first, if he so desired. In the meantime, Aziraphale had a problem of his own. Managing a bookshop by himself was proving a little more taxing than he anticipated. Invigorating as well, but he just couldn’t be at the register _and_ in the back _and_ reshelving books _and_ restoring first editions all at the same time. He needed help. An assistant, of sorts.

He took out an ad in the paper on Sunday for a part-time assistant, and by Thursday he was thoroughly sick of interviews. To be fair, maybe his expectations were too high, but most of the potential candidates were teenagers who kept asking for the wi-fi password and seemed genuinely frightened of his vintage cash register. And Aziraphale wasn’t about to hire just anyone off the street. He wanted someone who would have at least a vague idea of what they were doing, who knew to handle the older books with care, who could be trusted to watch the shop if he had to run out for a few minutes. It seemed a simple enough list of demands, but perhaps he would have to settle for someone he could pay to sit at the front desk and look professional.

On Friday morning, he unexpectedly heard the shop door open and a very familiar voice mutter, “Don’t touch anything. Just, I dunno, read a book or something while I talk to the owner.”

Another voice, rather younger and more sarcastic, said, “How am I supposed to do that if I can’t touch anything?”

“Magic. Hello, is anyone in? I’m hoping to talk to someone about the…”

Aziraphale hurried around the shelf and gawked at the sight of Crowley, looking _very_ professional in a suit and tie, standing in his bookshop.

Crowley balked. Without his sunglasses, Aziraphale was easily able to see how his lovely brown eyes bugged out in panic. “...assistant job?” he croaked.

“Nanny, can I read this one?” That came from a young boy off to the side, wearing a t-shirt with a rude word and holding up a second-edition Frankenstein.

“Yeah, fine, just put it back when you’re done,” Crowley said, still goggling at Aziraphale. “And don’t call me ‘nanny’. I’m your _legal guardian.”_

”Whatever, Nanny.” The boy (Warlock? Was that his name?) flopped into one of the armchairs and promptly used the book as a perch for his gaming device.

Aziraphale and Crowley looked at each other.

“Well!” Aziraphale said before he could lose his nerve. He held out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Aziraphale Fell, and yes, my parents knew _exactly_ what they were doing with that name. What may I call you, dear fellow?”

Crowley’s eyebrows flew up to impressive heights. “Um. Anthony Crowley.”

“Lovely. I have some time now, if you’d like to discuss the assistant job. Unless you would prefer to schedule the interview for another time?”

“No, now is fine.” Crowley cast a look in Warlock’s direction as he let himself be steered into the back room. “Don’t break anything!”

“Get me ice cream later, and I won’t!”

“Cheek,” Crowley muttered. In the back room, with several shelves and a wall safely between them and Warlock, Aziraphale took a seat at his desk while Crowley slumped onto the nearest couch.

Aziraphale clasped his hands in his lap. “So,” he said.

“So.” Crowley leaned back, one hand rubbing his forehead. “Oh, of course. A _bookshop._ You told me you had a bookshop, but I didn’t even think when I saw the ad…”

“An easy mistake to make,” Aziraphale said. Then he winced because he didn’t want Crowley to think he was _unhappy_ about seeing him again. Just the opposite. “How are you, my dear? You seem to have healed very well.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Crowley said. “Still can’t pick up heavy things, but I can at least go about my day without much pain. Got a job, even. Telemarketing.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!”

Crowley made a _psshh_ sound with his lips. “Tell that to the people I cold call,” he said.

“So why are you looking for another job, if I may ask?”

“Because kids are _bloody_ _expensive,_ and I’ve learned Warlock can be bought off with video games. Need a part time gig to make ends meet.”

“Gig?”

“Job.” Crowley sighed. “Anyway, sorry I wasted your time…”

“Now, hold on,” Aziraphale said before he could stand up. “I see no reason why I shouldn't consider you for the job.”

Crowley stared at him. “You don’t,” he said flatly. “You really see absolutely _nothing_ _wrong_ with hiring the man who…”

He glanced worriedly at the door to the main shop and mouthed ‘mugged you’ behind his hand.

“First of all, you did return my wallet, so I don’t think it counts,” Aziraphale said reasonably, heart thumping with painful hope. “Secondly, you saved my life, at great risk to your own. And thirdly, you are the first _remotely_ competent person to walk through that door and ask about this job.”

“You don’t know that I’m competent,” Crowley said, which would have been an enormously funny sentence in any other circumstance. “We’ve had, at most, two conversations. This could all be an elaborate ruse to trick you into hiring me so I can steal your cash box!”

“Are you intending to steal my cash box?”

“That’s not the _point.”_

“Mr. Crowley,” Aziraphale said firmly. “I feel I must reiterate this again. I am _not_ _afraid_ of you. What happened was terrible, for both of us, but I understand it wasn’t your fault. And I’m more grateful than I can say that we’re both here now, alive and reconciled. Can’t we… try to put that night behind us?”

Crowley blinked once, very slowly. He ducked his head. “I don’t want to… owe you anything,” he mumbled. “Or for you to feel like you owe me.”

“But that’s precisely why I’m proposing we start over,” Aziraphale said. “A new reef, as they say!”

“Leaf.”

“Oh, is that the saying?”

Crowley chuckled. “You read how many books and you don’t know the phrase ‘turn over a new leaf’?”

“Exactly! I’m hopeless! I know too much about books and too little about business, and I really _do_ need an assistant. Won’t you consider letting me interview you? I promise not to hire you unless you meet my requirements.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose and took some time to think it over, studying the rug under his feet while Aziraphale fiddled with his buttons and bowtie. It seemed to take six thousand years, but in reality it was only about a minute before Crowley shrugged and lounged back on the couch, lazily confident.

“Alright, then. _Mister_ Fell. Let’s get on with the interview. I’ll warn you now, I will _not_ pass a background check.”

Aziraphale smiled with a little delighted laugh. “Well, neither would I, so that’s not much of a disqualifier.” Crowley did a double take at that, but Aziraphale smoothly moved on, fetching a pen and paper to take notes. “So, Anthony Crowley. Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t have time to write out the rest of this slow burn, but if you want to know how the story ends… Crowley is hired on as an assistant at the bookshop, and it isn’t long at all before he and Aziraphale become friends. In time, Crowley takes over most of the sales along with managing the website and social media, leaving Aziraphale free to focus on collecting and repairing rare books to his heart’s desire. After three years, Aziraphale writes up a contract and asks Crowley to join in a formal business partnership, equals in all things, and the two of them continue to work together for seven very happy and profitable years. Around that time, Warlock goes to university and comes back with a boyfriend, and he makes a joke over dinner about how he’s still waiting for his Nanny and his Uncle Fell to “make things official”. What follows is nearly a week of awkwardness and tension before Crowley breaks down first and confesses he’s been desperately in love with Aziraphale for most of the time they’ve known each other. More confessions ensue, followed by passionate kissing, and they decide to take things slow and plan for a two-year engagement that culminates in a wedding at an apple orchard somewhere in the country.
> 
> And whenever well-meaning friends ask how they met, the two of them will exchange a Look. And it’s usually Aziraphale who launches into the story with, “Well, it all began when he walked into my bookshop for a job interview. I’m afraid I judged him too quickly, I thought he seemed like a bit of a scoundrel, but I’m so very glad it all worked out this way.”
> 
> And Crowley will gamely chime in with, “He was my guardian angel from the start. He took a chance on me, and I don’t know where I’d be without him. Stabbed to death in a dark alley, probably.”
> 
> And their friends will laugh while Aziraphale gives his husband a nudge and begs him not to make such morbid jokes.


End file.
